Copyright © 2005 by Blake Charlton. All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, reposting, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written permission of the author.
18 May 2006
There's something about travel that makes life more vivid--the harsher sunlight, the heavier rain, the way bus-brakes squeak differently in a different city. But wherever we go, we find others more or less like us. It's a rare pleasure for the mind and soul.
"Perhaps travel cannot prevent bigotry," Maya Angelou once stated, "but by demonstrating that all peoples cry, laugh, eat, worry, and die, it can introduce the idea that if we try to understand each other, we may even become friends."
And yet there is also something horrible about travel. It's a small feeling, but it's there. Most of the time we ignore it. For me it's a feeling of rootlessness, a realization that human beings don't inherently 'belong' anywhere, that we must construct our own sense of belonging. And if belonging is only a construct, only a fiction, what then is it really worth? What sharp aspects of our nature must surface?
"If it's called tourist season, why can't we shoot 'em?" proclaimed a bumper sticker I once read in Wyoming.
I think Grandpa Tolkien, in all his wisdom, understood the double nature of travel. He might not have traveled much himself, but his characters did. "Not all those who wander are lost," we hear and know the thrill of venturing forth from the Shire. But we are also warned "It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."
I write this after two wonderful, touristy vacations of my own and before a few more trips: there's to be a paddling expedition in Algonquin Park, Ontario with the woman dearest to me, and then a plethora of plane/hotel/interview/plane/hotel/interview medical school interview trips.
There is also the stranger, motionless journey I'm undertaking by rewriting Spellwright. When meeting in New York, my editor and I uncovered a nest of problems that need ironing out. This includes deleting my two favorite female characters (pain, agony) and inventing a new one (child-like delight). The book will also be shorter. When I first penned this story it went from A to Z in one volume. Nicodemus escaped his academic home and discovered a host of oddities on the road. But now, in this volume, in this rewrite, Nicodemus' journey takes place entirely within his home.
"All journeys have a secret destination that the travelers don't know about," one of my Chaucerian professors was fond of quoting (who first said it I can't remember).
The outline for the new Spellwright is written out to a nicety. I know exactly where I'm headed. The chapters are rolling out smoothly. The new female lead is a true pleasure to write. Everything is clicking away exactly as it should. So why then am I filled with apprehension about my manuscript's intended destination? Why do I worry if it will 'belong' where it ends up?
Perhaps I'm feeling the ghost in the rewriting machine. Perhaps all journeys need some uncertainty, some mystery to drive them forward. Perhaps if I had no apprehension, I would need to invent some.